“I told him I couldn’t handle a relationship while I was dealing with my feelings about my father’s passing.”
“And was that the real reason?”
“Am I speaking to Solicitor Griffiths?” she asked, but grinned to let him know she was teasing.
He winced at the playful reprimand. “Sorry,” he shook his head and chuckled, “you’re right. Forget I asked. It’s just the way you worded why you broke up sounded like it wasn’t the real reason.”
“It wasn’t,” she tapped the top of his hand that now rested on the table by their drinks, “which makes you correct. As heartless as this might make me sound, he just wasn’t it for me, and I knew it. I did as Dad always advised, and ‘cut my losses.’”
“Sound.”
“Finish your drink, Mr. Griffiths, and take me to the dance floor. I didn’t get all dressed up to be hidden in a corner,” she teased—and yes, flirted.
He threw back the remainder of his shot and held his hand out for her to grasp. “I despise any other man looking at you, but I won’t deny you a dance, Miss O’Faolain.”
She was thrilled that he admitted that he didn’t want anyone else to look at her and was more than delighted when he bent to kiss the side of her mouth as she had his.
She wanted more than that, and after tonight, she believed he did too.
The dance turned out to be just another gathering place for business talk, but she hardly minded. She was held tightly to Dagr’s body, moving to a slow beat. She had her hands resting onhis chest, and his hands were both flattened against the naked skin of her back.
In between the mini, impromptu dance floor meetings, Dagr leaned down and whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad I’m here.” He’d kept his ear close to her head, and she was able to whisper back. “Could I talk you into leaving, grabbing some greasy takeout, and going back to your place?”
“Easily.”
Changed into sweatshorts and a loose t-shirt, Bébhinn finished the last bite of possibly the most decadent burger she’d ever been treated to. “Mmm,” she said for the tenth time, wiping the last of the over-easy egg yolk from her chin.
Leaning back, she patted her satisfied belly. Thank goodness she worked out regularly because tonight’s caloric intake had to be astronomical.
She and Dagr were comfortably sprawled on the living room couch, happily watching Gordon Ramsay lose his shit and slam his hand down in the middle of a stone-cold halibut.
Once all the takeout trash was set aside, Dagr and she reclined side-by-side. She felt ridiculously juvenile, hoping his hand would find her hand. If she were honest, she hoped his lower bits would find hers, too, but she would take the glancing brush of a finger at this point.
She told herself not to, but she shifted just that little bit more so that their arms were completely touching. A breath later, he covered her hand with his, where it lay between their legs. She suppressed a sigh at the contact.
She kept her eyes trained on the screen even when he flipped her hand over and began rubbing circles in her palm. She could have moaned it felt so good.
“Bébhinn.”
He only said her name, but he had her full attention.
forty-two
ROWAN
Rowan walkedthrough the front door after a hellish Saturday. She’d flown to Paris to meet with an estate manager selling off a home’s antiques, from furniture, linens, paintings, and sculptures to crystal, china, and silver.
She’d made the trek for an eighteenth-century Limoges china serving platter. One of her clients had been searching for the last few pieces to complete her set for years.
Rowan had hired an expert in antiquities to meet her at the estate situated several miles outside Paris to authenticate the platter.
It was a replica.
She was still pissed at the missed opportunity to relax and read a book. The minute the heavy door closed behind her and before she’d even had a chance to set her satchel and keys down, her sisters came flying down the staircase to intercept her.
“Thank God, you’re home!” Raven said breathlessly.
